


The Weight I Bear/The Times We Share

by I_See_The_Stars_15



Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [7]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Immortal!Joe, Kinda, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Dialogue, Permadeath AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_See_The_Stars_15/pseuds/I_See_The_Stars_15
Summary: A poet reflects on death and his inability to die.
Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775941
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	The Weight I Bear/The Times We Share

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I last wrote, so here is a small musing on our favorite dad from Tennessee based on this tumblr post: https://icarusislost.tumblr.com/post/622055537511727104/odeysses-himbopercy-himbopercy-physically

The poet is seated by the window, eyes focused on the open book in front of him. Quill scratching against paper, ink seeping into cream pages, he writes for a tomorrow he is certain will come. He tries to transcribe the setting sun, describing the pink-streaked sky with plain black ink and flowery words that don’t quite do the scene justice. His glasses are askew on his face, off-centered but still functional as he tries to summon the correct phrases to describe what he should be feeling.

Something buzzes in the pocket of his pants and his hand moves off the page: a nuisance to be sure, not enough to deter him from writing, but enough to make him frown. Creasing his eyebrows, he pulls out his communicator, wiping the ink from his hand on the already-stained lectern he used as a writing space. The death message doesn’t phase him like it would phase the others. Wishes and questions about a certain scarred man’s wellbeing flood the chat, followed quickly by an assurance from the hermit in question. His device goes quiet once that message is received by the others, and he lets out a quiet sigh as the screen turns to black in his hand. 

He looks through his window to see the scene he had been busy describing had disappeared, warm streaks of color replaced by cooler pools of darkness, dotted with luminescent stars. Biting the inside of his cheek, reminded of the quick pace the world they live in has chosen to use, he lets both hand and mind wander over the pages of his book. The paper is rough on his fingertips, and so are the feelings he tries to convey with his words. In contrast, the barely-dried ink flows smoothly between the lines, carrying with them universal truths he wishes applied to him.

Death messages are not too uncommon in the tiny corner of the world they claimed as home. Even with pure magic capable of prolonging life at their fingertips, mishaps are plenty and can strike any of them. They do not fear death in the conventional sense, not in the way one would in a world with different mechanics than theirs. Their fears stem from the possibility of the system failing, of the off-chance that death decides to keep one of their own for good. He briefly recalls the few encounters their world has had with such system failures, solemn funerals and the days of mourning that seem too long even when each day quickly passes to the next. On those days, he muses, were the days his poetry seemed the most heart-wrenching, and the most hollow.

He never really understood the concept of grief associated with death, not when his being prevents him from experiencing what those who had passed had experienced. The anxiety his friends might feel from hearing about another person’s death was never something he could feel, nor properly express. He could not grasp why Cleo would have such a visceral reaction when he does not check in with her after a raid goes awry. When he thinks of death, he only feels numb, desensitized to the fear that plagues his makeshift family no matter how hard they deny it.

His supposed immunity to a final death does more than affect his fear response. Everything of course exists in a state of duality, where one cannot exist without the other, and wherein the disappearance of one leads to the disappearance of the other. With no fear for death, he has slowly lost the ability to enjoy life the way the other hermits do. He feels no rush when raiding the End, nor does the prospect of friendly battle excite him anymore. Worst of all for the poet, he doesn’t seem to cherish his friends in the way they cherished each other. The memories that would normally give rise to attachment and emotion give him no such satisfaction, quickly being filed away in the deep crevices of his mind when they were no longer needed. He was unable to bond with the others over their mortality, over their want to experience everything at once. How could he when he has no timer looming over him, when he has no need to fear for things outside of his control?

His friends always did wonder why he lived his life the way he did. He was never one to build massive bases or use redstone in innovative ways. He was more content with roaming the new world, collecting resources with his own bare hands instead of building mega farms to do it for him. Sometimes his friends, most often Cleo, would invite him for an adventure or a mischievous prank that would have him grinning all the while, but halfway through those pursuits he would find himself tired of pretending to smile.

He grabs his quill and taps the dry tip against the lectern, the sound snapping him out of the dazed stupor he found himself in. At first there is no rhythm or rhyme to his current actions, and he finds it grounding in an odd way. His gaze returns to the window, and he sees Lady Moon staring right back, glowing brightly as she makes her journey across the horizon. His mismatched tapping quickly develops a pattern, the monotony of the sound echoing across the humble room and replacing the relaxed quiet with a suffocating atmosphere. Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths so as to not break the quill he currently has secured in a tight grip, he stands up to place his meager iron armor on. The night is still young, and the mobs outside are nowhere near the number needed to make a short moonlit walk dangerous.

He steps into the berry fields of his winery, careful as to not get pricked on the berries he will need to harvest in the morning. The clacking of bones and undead groaning coming from below the structure he might call his base fades into the background as he takes in the sweet and sour smell of the field. Some might find his bucolic lifestyle to be lackluster, especially when viewed in comparison to his neighbors’ breathtaking terraforming project, but the tedious task of winemaking is a welcome reprieve from the otherwise encapsulating numbness of his life. The process of turning the berries into the intoxicating and tempting drink was a constant, but the diversity of the resulting product’s sweetness proved to be a joy to try. Some beverages were more tart than sweet, while those made from riper berries coated his tongue in a sticky sweet saccharine sap.

A stray arrow whizzes past his ear, startling him and causing him to fall to the ground covered in sharp spikes. He hisses as the plant’s appendages embed themselves into his exposed arms. He ignores the stinging pain of the crushed berry juices entering some of his open wounds and sits up, grabbing his sword to steady himself and to fend off the mobs that are no doubt encroaching in on his area. Another arrow finds itself in his shoulder, and he shakily stands, bringing up his sword and trying to face the skeleton whose arrow is now causing him pain. He finds the mob in question and rushes toward it, raising his sword and relying on instinct to help him hack at it. His sword is not as powerful as it could be, but he was able to quickly dispatch his attacker, leaving it as a pile of bones on the floor. Letting out an exhausted sigh, he reaches into his inventory for food to munch on and help his wounds to heal. He should have known better than to be distracted, because another arrow hits him square in the back, throwing him forward. He turns around, but he only sees another arrow headed for him before his vision turns to black.

When he wakes up in his bed sequestered safely in his home, it takes him a few seconds to collect himself. It’s normal for phantom pain to follow after a respawn, and his manner of death surely explained the throbbing in between his eyes. He feels his communicator buzz a few times, and is reminded once more of the situation of their world. As he expects, a slew of worried messages appear right after his death is broadcasted to them, with Tango offering to grab his items and Stress asking if he needs anything. Impulse takes the opportunity to advertise his shop, causing the poet to let out a small chuckle. Sending a brief message to confirm he is still present, he closes his eyes and leans against the wall.

The sun should rise soon and would burn down any mob that is still lurking near his winery. He should go grab his items before they despawn, but the quiet in the room tightens around his chest and renders him unable to move.

He will always come back, always wake up. Death is not something that comes to one of the Firsts. The magic running through their code means that they will see the end of times if such an event were to happen. It means that he will always be different, that he will never be able to connect with those around him. It means he is destined to live in solitude, to remain as a singular entity in the amalgamation of emotions that is his family. He will have to be content with watching, waiting for the world to stutter and claim another one of the hermits he has grown to be attached to. Perhaps, if he is lucky, the world might bring someone back as it did with Hypno, Etho, and Beef, but until then he, and all of the players in their world, are at the mercy of a system no one can control.

He has no clue over how long he was left to ruminate over his being, but the sun is successfully over the horizon by the time he opens his eyes. He grabs a spare sword in a nearby chest and once again goes outside, seeing a zombie wearing the armor he dropped upon his death. Quickly swooping in to kill the mob, he picks up the other items on the ground. He notes a few missing blocks, but is relieved to see that nothing valuable despawned in the time between then and his respawn. His vendetta against diamonds would surely mean that he has difficulty to replace items like his elytra should he lose them.

The walk back to his winery is short, and he decides to fill up the space in his mind with aimless musing about the other hermits. By the time he reaches his front door, he has come up with the vague simile between Grian and the sun, and his hand starts itching for the feeling of ink beneath him. Approaching the lectern with his book still in the open, he grabs the quill he had abandoned the night before. Opening to a clean page, he lets his fingers linger on the rough paper for a second, thinking of all that he can pour out onto this blank canvas, even if they may not be the most genuine feelings. He starts scribbling away, absently murmuring to himself as the strokes come together to form a poem that he might have to show the hermit in question when their paths cross once again. Quill scratching against paper, ink seeping into cream pages, he writes, an immortal desperately trying to love like his peers, finding comfort in the gilded words he spins together. He knows that there are berries waiting to be picked and a dog sanctuary waiting to be tended to, and he knows that there will come a time when the system fails once more but he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind. He has plenty of time in the world to worry, and although he is sure will spend most of it feeling numb, the idea of being in the same world as his odd dysfunctional family is enough to warm his heart if even just for a moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanons used in this story:  
> -Permadeath is the result of a glitch, and when a hermit 'leaves' it basically means they died  
> -The glitch doesn't apply to the First Players, essentially making them immortal  
> -Joe is one of the First Players (like Steve and Alex), which is why his skin is somewhat plain compared to the others
> 
> That's it! Thank you so much for reading, and if you enjoyed please consider dropping a comment or kudos! I appreciate all the support!


End file.
